


House of the Rising Sun

by Claire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cop!AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-17
Updated: 2011-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-02 04:12:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claire/pseuds/Claire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Between the serial killer and his partner, Dean Winchester's week really can't get any worse</p>
            </blockquote>





	House of the Rising Sun

It's the incessant buzzing of his cell phone that finally wakes Dean. The brightness from the streetlight outside his flat is shining in through the window and David Caruso's on the TV, taking off his sunglasses and glaring at someone, which means at least a couple of hours have passed since Dean walked through the door and sat down (and, apparently, fell asleep).

Throwing a hand out, he pats the coffee table a couple of times, fingers skirting across his badge and gun before finally curling around his phone and flicking it open.

"Winchester," he answers, just managing to bank down on the _and it had better be fucking good_ that's welling inside him. He's barely been home in the past few days, had been considering just redirecting all his mail to the police station, since he's been all but living at the station, surviving on takeout and quick showers and snatches of sleep, thanks to the case he's working. He's only here now because Ellen had said she didn't want a team who were more likely to fall asleep at their desks than crack the case and sent them away with instructions not to come back for 12 hours.

All of which doesn't explain why his partner is calling him instead of being at home sleeping or watching bad TV or doing whatever the hell else he does when he's not with Dean.

"230 East 48th Street. We've got another one." The slightly tinny voice coming through the phone cuts out, leaving Dean staring at the ceiling with the dial tone in his ear.

Well, fuck.

~

Even if he hadn't known the address, Dean would know where to park. The house he's headed to has been cordoned off, with officers outside to control the crowd that should have better things to do on a Friday evening.

He slides the Impala in behind one of the marked cars before weaving easily through the onlookers and ducking under the crime scene tape. The coroner's van is the only vehicle inside the area, doors open and Ash sitting on the back. It's not the first time he's seen Ash like that, legs dangling out of the back of the van waiting until the scene is clear and he and Jo can take whatever sorry bastard's about to end up on their table, but it's the first time Dean's see him do it while looking like he's about to puke. Which, considering Dean's seen him cutting up a cadaver one minute and eating a mystery meat pizza the next, is saying something.

"Ash? You okay?"

Ash doesn't answer directly. "I couldn't stay in there any longer. Jo's in there with Castiel." Ash looks up at him. "It's nasty in there."

It always is, Dean thinks.

He leaves Ash on the back of the wagon, and heads towards the house, creaking stairs leading up to the porch. The house is old but well kept, and Dean wonders why he's standing here when the sun is barely peaking over the horizon.

The smell's the first thing that hits him as he walks in, sick and cloying with an underlying hint of lemon, and he can't help but feel grateful that he didn't grab that bagel on the way out of his apartment, can't help but feel that it would be making one hell of a reappearance if he had.

"Where is it?" he asks one of the uniforms in the hall.

"First floor; second room on the right."

Dean walks up the stairs, carefully bypassing the little yellow markers that are scattered about. The crime scene guys are all around the house, bagging and tagging everything they find, but the only two in the bedroom Dean's standing outside of are Jo and Castiel.

The smell's stronger up here and Dean thinks that Ash has the right idea, get out before the stench permeates every part of you, but he steps inside anyway.

Jo is bending over the bed, and Dean can't tell if the body she's looking at is male or female. Can't tell because it's nothing but skin and bones, emaciated and skeletal, the last wisps of hair barely clinging to its skull.

"Hey, Dean." She nods at him, waving a fly out of the way as she continues to make notes.

Castiel looks up when Jo speaks, like he hadn't even realised Dean was there until Jo acknowledged him.

"What have we got?" Dean asks, the urge to shift under Castiel's scrutiny fading as he looks down at the notepad in his hands.

"Ava Wilson. Thirty-four, lived alone. She was a realtor, from what we can gather from some of the papers downstairs." Castiel's voice is low, deliberate.

Which means she has colleagues, someone who should be missing her. So what happened?

"Jo? What can you tell us?"

"That whoever's doing this is a sick son of a bitch?" she replies.

"Which is true, but unhelpful," Castiel comments, merely tilting his head slightly when Jo glares at him.

"We'll have to get her back to the morgue to check her bloodwork but, at first guess, she was starved to death. He tied her down and _starved her to death_. Jesus, _fuck_ , guys--"

"I know, Jo." Part of Dean wants to tell her to leave, to go and find a coffee shop and forget about bodies and murders and the shit that happens in life. But he's known Jo since they were kids, so he knows that if he did, she'd tell him to fuck right off and let her get on with her job.

She closes her eyes briefly, breathing once before opening them again. "I can't do anything else in here until the forensics team is done. I'm gonna go make sure Ash hasn't lost the burger he ate on the way over here."

Dean reaches out as she walks past him, and she throws him a smile as he squeezes her hand.

"So this makes victim number five," Castiel says as Jo leaves them alone in the bedroom, the muted sounds of the team still working downstairs floating through the house.

"Do we know it's definitely the same guy?" Dean asks.

Castiel looks straight past Dean, pointing to the wall behind him. "I'd say that's a pretty good indication."

Dean knows what's he's going to see before he turns around, knows what he's going to read in sharp, careful letters.

 _Come and See_ , it declares in something that could be a hundred other things than the dark red paint Dean knows it to be.

 _Come and See_ , clear and precise, written across a light blue wall like a wound.

 _Come and See_ , like it's a fucking commandment.

 _Come and See_.

Well, they're here and so far all Dean's seeing is another body left by a fucking nutjob. 

"We should head back." Dean jumps slightly at the closeness of Castiel's voice, cursing his partner for moving like a fucking cat.

"I swear to God I'm going to put a collar and bell on you, Cas," Dean mutters. He'd make a comment about getting up close and personal, but there's no point. He knows the other man won't listen to him, hasn't listened since he first transferred in last year. It's like Castiel Milton is either unaware or unconcerned about the concept of personal space. Dean kinda thinks it's the latter.

Castiel glances at him and Dean can almost see the thoughtful look flit across his face. "I normally make people buy me dinner before I let them get to that stage, Dean," he says. There's a soft smirk on his face as he looks at Dean for long moments before his gaze is drawn back to the writing on the wall, the slight smile falling from his face as he turns and walks out of the bedroom.

It takes Dean a few seconds to follow.

~

Bobby's already pinning photos up when Dean walks into the conference room. Dean wonders what patterns he can see behind the blood splashes on the page.

Ava Wilson gets a board to herself, the fifth in a row. Photos of her and her house and her life laid out before them in a hope that they'll catch the sick bastard who's doing this. It's not going to be easy when the guy's just completely changed his MO. Changed from locking two guys in a cage and making them fight each other to the death (with incentives of cattle prods and strangulation waiting for the winner) to starving a woman until she died.

If not for the message left for them each time, Dean would have assumed it was two different perps. Nothing in either of the previous two scenes remotely matched what they found at Ava Wilson's house. Nothing but the writing on the wall, the protestation for them to _Come and See_ declared in dark red letters each time.

He looks over to the other boards, the other faces staring back at him. The eyes of Jacob Talley and Andrew Gallagher and William Carlton and Walter Rosen all look at him, asking when he's going to pull his head out of his ass and find their killer. Dean doesn't have an answer for them.

"You gonna stand there all day, boy?" Bobby's gruff tone derails the sombre thoughts in Dean's mind.

Dean doesn't reply for long moments. "I don't know how we're going to catch this guy, Bobby," he finally admits.

"Same way we always do, son."

"Hard work and God's own luck," Dean recites, having heard the mantra more than once from both Bobby and his dad.

"Exactly," and Dean can hear the soft note of approval in the word. "I ain't never seen you give up on a case yet, Dean Winchester, and I don't expect this to be the first."

"Yes, sir."

"Now, get. I'll let you know what we find." Bobby waves him out of the room, closing the door behind him as he leaves.

~

There's a trenchcoat thrown over a chair and an empty coffee cup sitting on Castiel's desk when Dean finally makes it back to the bullpen but there's no sign of his partner. The room's almost deserted, just Victor and Pamela there, but they always seem to be there. If he hadn't actually been to both of their houses at some point, he'd probably have believed the rumour about them living in one of the empty offices that had circulated a few weeks back.

"Do either of you--"

"He's in Harvelle's office." Pamela barely glances up from her computer as she answers, and Dean wonders if he's just that predictable that she knows exactly what he was thinking.

"Thanks, Pam," he calls over his shoulder, as he heads out of the room, ignoring the "Bring back coffee!" from Victor that follows him.

The door to Ellen's office is closed but she waves Dean in as soon as she sees him.

"Dean, we were just talking about you."

Crap. Either Castiel has been in here bitching about Dean trying to make him write all the reports ("Honestly, Cas, it's _completely_ the responsibility of the new partner to type everything up--") or he's finally gotten fed up of Dean checking him out when he bends over and decided to report him for sexual harassment. It could be either of them by the way Castiel is sitting in the other chair, ramrod straight and pointedly not looking at the two of them.

"All good, I hope." Even if that's just not possible, considering exactly how long and how well Ellen knows him. But that, he figures, is both the upside and the downside to have having one of his dad's oldest friends as his lieutenant.

Ellen's gaze flicks over to Castiel, and Dean's seen that look enough times to know Ellen's concerned about someone. He's seen it enough times to be pretty sure that that someone is Castiel.

"Castiel?" It's been a while since Dean's heard that tone from Ellen, careful and quiet. The last time had been a few years ago, when she'd followed his name with "There's been a robbery, Dean. Shots were fired. Your dad's been taken to hospital--"

Castiel finally looks over at Ellen, nodding once.

"We're looking at a copycat, Dean." Ellen picks up the file on her desk and hands it to him.

The folder Ellen gives him isn't old, but it's worn, creased at the edges in a way that indicates it's been handled regularly. The file belongs to a Lucas Milton, the photo attached to the inside showing a serious young man with sharp blue eyes, piercing and kind of familiar in a way that makes Dean pause.

Behind the photo are several police reports, spanning more than a year. Dean skims the details, not bothering to read them fully. He doesn't need to. He's spent the last few weeks looking them, making his own notes.

"Why are you just telling us this now?" Because there may be something they've missed, some little thing that they would have caught if they'd _known_.

"Lieutenant Harvelle didn't know, Dean," Castiel replies, and Dean realises Ellen's not telling _them_ , she and Cas are telling _him_. "And I wasn't sure until tonight." Castiel looks at him. "After all, one identical M.O. could be coincidence. Two, however, isn't." He pauses. "Well, _nearly_ identical."

" _Nearly_ identical?" Because, from what Dean's gleaned from the police reports, they look pretty fucking _completely_ identical.

"The 'Come and See' is new," Castiel says, prompting Dean to open the folder again and scan through the first report. Castiel's right, there's no mention of it, no mention of anything written on the wall at all. Just bodies, some with bruises and marks and wounds, and some with sunken cheeks and skin wrapped around a skeleton, and others with-- oh, fuck, that's gross.

Dean turns the photo over quickly, but the image of the livid, red sores, tinged yellow and green, is still in his mind, and he hopes to hell they stop the guy before he gets to _that_ stage.

"So, why do you think it's a copycat?" Because it could just be the sicko come back to try again. "What's to say this guy hasn't just resurfaced?"

"The last report, Dean." Castiel's voice is quiet and the non sequitur throws Dean for a moment before he flicks to the last few pages, police report and coroner's report stapled together.

The words are stark, bare. _Confirmed dead_ and _suicide_ and _.45_ and the same sort of things Dean's read a hundred other times in a hundred other reports until he hones in on the one thing that almost jumps out of the page when he reads it. _Shot himself in front of--_ oh.

 _Oh_.

He lifts his gaze slowly, meeting Castiel's eyes.

"It can't be him because my brother is dead, Dean."

~

There's a cup sitting next to the files on the conference table, the napkin stuffed inside it already brown with the soaked-up coffee it's absorbed. Dean's sure Castiel heard him come in, it's not like he's trying to be quiet, but the other man hasn't turned around, hasn't done anything to acknowledge Dean's presence.

"Y'know," Dean says conversationally, spinning a chair around as he pulls it away from the conference table so he can straddle it. "When you said you became a cop because of your brother, I kinda assumed you meant he was one and you followed in his footsteps, not that he was one of the psychos you wanted to catch."

It had been not long after Castiel had arrived, not long after they'd been assigned as partners. They'd been watching a warehouse, waiting to see if a shipment of drugs was going to arrive, and Dean had figured it was the perfect time to get to know his new partner. He'd also figured asking Castiel the usual questions (Where are you from? Why a cop?) was less likely to get him into trouble with Ellen than jumping the guy, even though his dick had been all for that idea since the moment he'd walked into Ellen's office and been pinned by an intense blue gaze.

Castiel stills, his hand pulling back from the photo he's standing in front of, pulling back from tracing the letters that mark this batch of murders as different. "What I told you was the truth. It's not my fault if you chose to interpret it incorrectly."

"Whatever you say, Obi-Wan." Because having the truth _from a certain point of view_ doesn't work when you're supposed to trust the other person with your life.

Sighing, Castiel glances away, his hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose before running through his hair. "Understand, Dean, this is _difficult_. It's not exactly something I tend to talk about."

He looks back at Dean, the corner of his mouth turned down and hair looking like he's just rolled out of bed, and Dean feels like a giant asshole. He can't even begin to think what it would be like, can't even imagine what he would have done if it had been Sam. He knows he'd never be able to say it, never be able to introduce himself as _Hi, I'm Dean Winchester and my brother's a giant psychotic serial killer,_ so why the hell would Castiel?

"Come on." Dean stands up, glancing through to Ellen's office out of the window, where she's very carefully pretending not to watch them.

"Where are we going?"

"You and I are going to get spectacularly drunk." Because after today, after the last few weeks, they deserve it.

Castiel frowns, a small wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows. "I don't drink on duty."

"Then it's a good job we're not officially on shift, then, isn't it." He walks out of the conference room, not needing to look behind him to know that Castiel is following.

~

It's been a couple of hours since they got to Dean's apartment, the two of them making serious inroads into the beer that's been sitting in Dean's fridge since Sam brought it around the last time he was there. They try and get together at least once a week but it's not always that easy for a cop and a lawyer to get their schedules to match. The last time they'd gotten together was in a courthouse when Sam had called Dean to the witness stand to testify and Dean just doesn't think "Explain what you found when you walked into the warehouse the night of July 16th" is the kind of quality time he wants to be spending with Sam. Especially since he couldn't exactly reply "There was a shitload of coke and have you gotten around to asking Jess to marry you, yet, you giant loser?"

The coffee table's littered with empty bottles, and it's not until Dean reaches for another that he realises there are none. Castiel's next to him, fingers wrapped around the neck of the beer bottle he's holding and head against the back of the couch, eyes closed and a soft flush to his cheeks that indicates that, even if he's not drunk, he's not entirely sober.

"He used to hear voices," Castiel says quietly, eyes still closed and fingers running over the smoothness of the bottle.

"Cas?" Even though there's only one person he could be talking about.

"My brother. He used to hear voices."

Dean knows he should tell Castiel that he doesn't have to do this, doesn't have to tell Dean anything, but he doesn't.

"A bunch of animals in the neighbourhood went missing. And then Anna walked in on him--"

"Anna?" Dean can't help himself.

"My sister," Castiel answers. "Luke was the oldest, then Gabriel, then Anna, and then me." He pauses, opening his eyes and staring at Dean's ceiling. "Luke had a cat and he'd--" Castiel's words trail off, but Dean doesn't ask him to elaborate. He's pretty sure the image his mind is supplying is enough.

"He went away for a while. My mother used to tell people that he was staying with family in Austin, but everyone knew it was a lie. Everyone knew he was in a psychiatric hospital. He was in there for over a year before they released him. The doctors said he'd be okay if he continued to take his medication."

There's silence for a few moments.

"What happened, Cas?" Dean's always been too curious for his own good.

"We thought everything was okay." Castiel's opens his eyes, looking at Dean. "And then it was on the news. The police had found-- they'd found bodies. Homeless people who'd been taken and--" Castiel huffs a low, quiet laugh. "Well, you know how, Dean. After all, the photos are up in the conference room."

"He'd killed them." It's not a question, it doesn't need to be.

Castiel nods. "The night it was on the news, Luke was sitting at the kitchen table. He looked so-- _lost_. He said he couldn't help it. Said that there was a demon inside him, that the devil made him do it. He said it was like it was watching himself do all these things and not be able to stop himself." Castiel glances away briefly. "He had my father's gun in his hand and he shot himself. I remember the bang, and my mother running in and screaming. And I remember the blood sliding down the wall beside him."

"Jesus, Cas." Dean reaches out without thinking about it, his fingers wrapping around Castiel's wrist. He can't begin to wonder what he'd feel, what he'd _do_ , if it had been Sam. If Sam walked in front of him with a gun and-- Dean's mind shies away from the image, unwilling to even imagine.

"And now it's happening again." Castiel's knuckles are white from his grip on the bottle.

Reaching out, Dean takes the bottle, putting it on the table. "We'll find him, Cas. We'll find him and we'll take the sick son of a bitch down."

Castiel doesn't answer, his eyes fixed on Dean's hands. On where Dean's fingers are rubbing circles into Castiel's wrist, careful and slow and oh--

"Shit, Cas, I'm sorry." Because feeling someone up after they've just spilled their life story to you is exactly the thing to do in this case. Dean pulls his hand away, frowning when Castiel catches his fingers in his own. "Cas?"

"You are very attractive," Castiel says quietly. "And often infuriating."

Which, as testimonies go, isn't the worst one Dean's had.

"You're a good man, Dean Winchester."

Castiel's lips are soft against his, his tongue flicking out to lap at Dean's lower lip. Dean knows he should stop this, knows that neither of them are thinking completely straight and that there are a hundred reasons why this is a bad idea. And then Castiel's hand slides under Dean's shirt, tugging at his belt, and the hundred bad ideas get replaced with one simple fact. He wants this.

"Cas--" The moan is lost into Castiel's mouth, swallowed by teeth and tongue and lips.

His own hand is at Castiel's belt, and it's a race to see who gets there first, fingers fumbling with leather and buttons as their lips stay sealed, trying not to lose the connection they have with each other.

Dean's head thumps against the arm of the couch as his trousers finally open and Castiel's hand slips inside, past his boxers, to wrap around the hardness pressing against the fabric.

"Fuck, Cas--" Dean arches up into the touch as much as he can, considering Castiel is lying on top of him, legs between Dean's and fingers working Dean's cock out of its confines.

As soon as the cool air hits Dean's dick, Castiel's fingers are gone, pulling at his own belt and popping open the last button Dean hasn't managed to open. Pulling his dick out, Castiel slides against Dean, hard flesh against hard flesh, and a groan rents the air. Dean thinks may be him, but he's just not sure.

Castiel's hand is next to Dean's head, fingers gripping the sofa tightly, his knuckles white as he leaves soft indentations in the fabric.

The head of Castiel's cock catches on his, sharp and bright and lube would make this easier, make the slick slide of flesh smoother, but the lube's in the bedroom and Dean's fucked if he's going to move, fucked if he's going to do anything to take that look off Castiel's face, with his eyes closed and his teeth worrying at his lower lip, which means he's going to have to improvise.

Castiel's eyes open as Dean runs his fingers through his hair, cradling the back of Castiel's head as he lifts his other hand to Cas's mouth.

"Lick," he says, wiggling his fingers slightly.

Castiel stares at Dean's hand for a couple of seconds before moving forward, his tongue swiping across Dean's palm, a smile crossing his face. Holding Dean's wrist to steady him, Castiel licks up Dean's fingers, smirking as he closes his lips around the fingertips, sucking on the digits and laving them with his tongue.

Dean's cock twitches, because it may be his fingers in Castiel's mouth, but his brain's stuck on _lips_ and _suck_ , and his dick can't help but sit up and take notice.

Pulling back, Castiel lets the fingers fall from his mouth, tongue darting out to lick at his lower lip as he asks, "Wet enough?"

Dean doesn't answer, just wraps his fingers around him and Castiel, encasing both their cocks in his grip.

Castiel hisses quietly as Dean starts to jerk them, slow, languid movements as he runs his thumb over first his cockhead and then Castiel's, gathering the precome and slicking it over them. Castiel's hips are jerking, shallow thrusts into Dean's grip as his cock slides easily over Dean's.

"C'mere--" Tightening his grip on the back of Castiel's head, Dean tugs him down, their cocks squashed between them as their lips seal together, the taste of beer still strong on Castiel's breath. Dean can barely move his hand, but it doesn't matter because he can already feel it, boiling in his stomach, his balls tight and ready. All it takes is one more moment, one soft hitch of breath as Castiel's cock pulses against his and he's there, spilling wet and heat between them.

A few seconds later, Castiel follows as Dean pushes his thumb under the head of his cock. Breaking the kiss as he stiffens in Dean's grip, his come mixing with Dean's and soaking into their clothes, tacky and warm.

Castiel's entire body relaxes, resting his head against Dean's shoulder. Dean knows they should move, knows they should clean up, but it's been a long day. Hell, it's been a long _month_ , and his couch is there and moving means actually doing something that isn't just closing his eyes. Besides, Castiel is on top of him, and it would be mean to make him move straight away. Maybe in five minutes. Dean closes his eyes. Yeah, five minutes, they'll clean up then.

~

There are two cell phones buzzing when Dean wakes up, and if he's going to make it a habit of sleeping on the couch, then he really needs to buy a more comfortable couch. Castiel is tucked against him, head resting on Dean's shoulder and leg thrown over Dean's. They're still clothed and Dean knows they never got as far as cleaning up after the drunken make out session before they fell asleep. And, wow, doesn't that make him feel old.

"Please stop buzzing," Castiel mumbles, the words muffled in Dean's shirt.

Dean runs a hand over Cas's back as his other reaches for the phone on the coffee table.

"Winchester," he says, finally managing to get his fingers to work long enough to open the phone.

There's a short pause. "Dean?"

Ellen's voice forces him to wakefulness. If Ellen's calling at-- Dean tries to twist to check the clock on the wall behind him, but Cas rumbles a protest and tightens his arms around Dean. Well, whatever time it is, if Ellen's calling, then it's not likely to be good news.

"Dean," Ellen continues, "is there a reason you're answering Detective Milton's phone, but neglected to answer your own?"

Crap.

He's completely awake now, his eyes going to his own cell phone, still lying on the coffee table and buzzing quietly, the screen indicating a voicemail waiting for him.

"Er--" Because he can come with something, he can, he's just never lied to Ellen before-- well, apart from the time he and Jo denied having anything to do with the slashed tires that jerkwad who'd hit on Jo at a bar and wouldn't take no for an answer ended up with, and that was more of an _obfuscation_ than an outright lie-- and he's not willing to start now.

But Ellen saves him from having to say anything. "Actually, no never mind, It's probably better if I don't know. I'm just going to assume that Castiel is with you and tell you both to get down to Main; we've got another body."

Ellen's words chase off any lingering hint of sleep. Snapping the cell shut, he drops it back on the table, shaking Castiel gently. "Cas, we've got to get up."

"Comfortable," comes the reply, Cas burying his head further into the crook of Dean's shoulder.

And if Dean had it his way, he'd close his eyes and go back to sleep, as well, but they can't. "Come on, Cas, that was Ellen. We've got another one."

Cas stiffens at Dean's words, lifting his head meeting Dean's gaze with eyes that are surprisingly focused for someone who was barely awake seconds ago.

"Dean--" For a moment when Dean thinks the next words out of Cas will be "This was a mistake" or "This can't happen again," when no, it _wasn't_ a mistake and, if Dean has anything to do with it, it'll be happening on a highly regular basis.

But there's no hesitation or concern on Cas's face, just a faint air of distaste as he runs his tongue over his teeth. "I really hope you have a spare toothbrush," he says, his eyes glancing down to the dried mess of come on his shirt. "Also, I may need to borrow a shirt."

~

Jo's standing by her van when they turn the corner, talking to one of the officers taping off the area.

Dean parks behind the van. Either it's too early for the gawkers to be out or news about this one hasn't hit yet, because there's no one behind the cordon they're busy putting up, no one to tell to move away, move on, get out of the way.

Jo waves at them absently, her eyes narrowing, focusing on Castiel as they get closer.

"Everything okay?" Dean asks.

Jo nods. "Yeah. Looks like she's been dead for a few days; I'll be able to pin it down more when we get her back. We're just waiting on Bobby's team showing before we stomp all over the scene."

"Speaking of which," Castiel comments, nodding his head towards the car that's just pulling up.

Bobby's already barking orders to his team as they get out of the car, dictating who needs to do what once they're in the house. Since Bobby's team is one of the most capable crime scene teams Dean's ever worked with, he's pretty sure Bobby does it just to keep them on their toes.

"How long?" he asks as Bobby pauses for breath.

"Won't know 'til we get inside," comes the reply. "Give us ten minutes to do the preliminary check. If I need you to stay out any longer, I tell you--" The words trail off as an officer comes out from the house, causing a frown to cross Bobby's face. "You'd better not be messing up my crime scene, boy!" he shouts, grumbling softly under his breath as he walks away.

"So," Jo says lightly, waiting until Bobby's out of earshot before she turns back to the two of them, "is there a reason you're arriving together? I mean, Castiel, the last time you commented on Dean's driving it was to say that he drove like a monkey on crack and hell would freeze over before you willingly got into a car with Dean Winchester again."

"Carpooling," Dean replies, smirking. Seriously, you mount a sidewalk a couple of times chasing a suspect and you never get to live it down. And, anyway, there's no way in hell he's going to tell her the truth, not unless he wants her to gloat about it for the next five years. Dean had spent a good potion of one Friday night weeks ago bemoaning to Jo that it really wasn't fair how hot his partner was when he wasn't allowed to touch and Jo had spent the rest of the night trying to persuade Dean that her mom probably wouldn't say anything if he and Castiel did decide to tango in the sheets, since she was far too happy with their success rate for closing cases. Sometimes it sucked have his lieutenant's kid as one of his closest friends. "Saving the environment, Jo. Got to do our bit."

"And does _doing your bit_ have anything to do with Castiel wearing your shirt?" The grin on Jo's face gets wider at the surprise that crosses Cas's features. "Seriously, Castiel, I somehow doubt you're the kind of guy who makes it a habit to buy his shirts a size too big. And also, unless I'm wrong and I'm really not, that's the shirt I got Dean for Christmas last year."

Jo's looking far too pleased with herself and Dean's considering just telling her to mind her own business when Castiel reaches out, laying a hand on her arm.

"We'd appreciate your discretion in this matter, Jo."

"Yeah, sure," Jo replies, and Dean gets the hesitancy. He and Jo do bickering and teasing and backing each other up no matter what, because she's his and Sam's sister in every way but blood, but fuck if they ever do honest sincerity. It's love wrapped in insults because that's the way they were raised, so he gets it, he _does_. It doesn't stop him from reaching out and squeezing Jo's hand, though.

"Thanks, Jo."

She smiles at both of them until the moment's broken by Bobby yelling from the porch.

"Prelim's done! You can get your asses in here! Just don't step on anything!"

"Time to work," Jo comments, banging her hand against the side of the van. "Yo, Ash! Stop reading porn, we've got a body to move!"

~

There's nothing personal in the house and, according to the neighbour, the place has been sitting empty since the previous owner passed away six months ago, so they have no way of immediately identifying whose body is lying in the morgue. According to the records, there have been seventeen women within five years either way of the age Jo estimated their Jane Doe to be reported missing in the past month. And that's just their state, Dean hates to think how many they'll be adding to that number if they have to expand into neighbouring states.

"I've got her," Castiel says, tilting his head slightly as he stares at the picture on his computer. "AFIS came back with a hit on the fingerprints Jo pulled off."

Resting a hand on Castiel's shoulder and leaning over the back of his chair, Dean looks at the photo of the woman on the screen. The hair colour's about right, as is the shape of her face if Dean imagines what she would have looked like when she was alive, instead of the sunken, emaciated features that greeted them when they walked into the bedroom. "Why's she in the system?"

"Diana Ballard was arrested for DUI three years ago," Castiel replies.

And now she's lying on a slab in their morgue.

"Who reported her?" Because someone had to, which means someone's missing her.

"Her husband," Castiel answers, turning to look at Dean.

And now it's up to them to tell him, to let him know that the person he's waiting for isn't coming home.

"I hate this part," Dean admits.

Cas reaches up, wrapping his fingers around Dean's and squeezing once. "It needs to be done."

Yeah, it does. Doesn't mean Dean's got to like it. They can't put it off, though; can't let a family go on thinking there's hope when there is none. Reaching over for his jacket, Dean's just about to grab the car keys off Castiel's desk when Ellen's door opens.

"Winchester! Milton! Get your asses in here, Bobby's found something you should know about."

Dean hadn't even noticed Bobby head into Ellen's office, had been too busy focusing on Castiel and _not_ leaning over the desk to kiss him.

"AFIS came back with a name, Lieutenant," Castiel says. "We were just about to go and speak to the family."

Ellen looks over to where Victor and Pam are sitting. "Henriksen, Barnes! You're seeing the family," she shouts across to them before turning back to Dean and Castiel. "Trust me, you want to hear this."

"Ellen?" Because the look on her face is something Dean hasn't seen there since this entire case started. But she doesn't reply, just turns around and waits for them to walk into her office.

Bobby is sitting in one of the chairs, throwing the report he'd been flicking through back onto Ellen's desk when she shuts the door behind them.

"Thought you boys might be interested to know we found DNA under Jane Doe's fingernails," Bobby says. "DNA that _doesn't_ belong to her."

Which means it belongs to someone else and the most likely candidate for that someone else is the bastard who's doing this. Which means they may just have actually gotten a break on this case. Dean looks over at Cas and grins. It's about fucking time.

"Are you--"

"Running it through CODIS as we speak," Bobby confirms, the look on his face saying the _son, I ain't an idiot and I know how to do my job--_ that his mouth isn't.

"So, about twenty-four hours?" Dean comments.

"Don't get your hopes up," Bobby warns. "It all depends if she's in the system or not."

Wait, hold on--

"She?" Castiel repeats, and Dean's pretty sure they're thinking exactly the same thing. Thinking that most serial killers are men, that the level of violence involved in some of the killings pointed to a male perpetrator.

Bobby nods. "That I can confirm. What's under Jane Doe's--"

"Diana Ballard," Dean interrupts, because even if they got to her too late, she still deserves her name.

Bobby doesn't miss a beat at the interruption, "What's under her fingernails is skin and blood, and the person it belongs to is definitely female."

Skin and blood. It means that, whatever else she did, Diane Ballard fought back, that she managed to keep a little bit of her killer with her. It means Diana Ballard may actually be able to name the person who did this to her, who did this to all the others.

"Twenty-four hours," Dean says, his voice quiet.

Bobby just nods. "We'll know by then if CODIS is going to bring back a name."

"Which means I don't want to see either of you back here until tomorrow," Ellen says.

Dean looks at her. There's still a crap load of stuff they could be doing, still--

"You've both been working non-stop since this case hit and every time I look up, you're either here or being called back in," she continues, lifting a hand before Dean can even object. "Go home, get some rest and come back tomorrow. It's going to be a long day, whether CODIS comes back with anything or not."

"Yes, ma'am." If there's anything Dean learned at a young age, it was when to pick his battles, and that picking one with Ellen rarely works out in your favour.

~

It's by unspoken agreement that they end up driving to Dean's, Castiel bypassing his car completely and sliding into the passenger seat next to Dean. Dean wonders if anyone's realised that Cas's car is still in the station's parking lot, left there from the first time they ended up at Dean's.

They don't touch as they walk up the two flights of stairs to Dean's floor. They could take the elevator, but it's been acting up the past few days and Dean's not in the mood to get stuck in there for three hours while they call someone out to fix the thing; he had enough of that last time. Not that being stuck in a small space with Castiel would be a hardship, but right now the call of food and bed is too tempting to ignore.

Throwing his keys onto the table next to the door once they're inside, Dean heads into kitchen and grabs the menu for the pizza place out of one of the drawers.

When he gets into the living room, Castiel's trenchcoat is already draped over the back of one of the chairs and Cas is standing in front of Dean's bookcase, studying the novels there intently.

"You wouldn't have struck me as a Vonnegut fan," he says, not turning around as he draws a finger down the spine of _Cat's Cradle_.

"My dad got me into them," Dean replies. He remembers spending a week out of school, tired and sick and feeling thoroughly sorry for himself. He'd picked up Dad's copy of _The Sirens of Titan_ because it was either that or watch more TV, and there was only so much daytime TV you could watch before wanting to scoop your brains out with a spoon. 

He holds out the pizza menu. "Order whatever you want so long as it doesn't have anchovies on it."

Castiel stares at the menu for long moments before reaching out, bypassing the leaflet in Dean's hand and wrapping his fingers around Dean's wrist, warm and solid.

There's a second of silence as their gazes meet, a second of silence before Castiel's lips are on his. Dean doesn't know which one of them moved first. To be honest, he doesn't actually care, he's just fucking grateful that they did.

The pizza menu floats to the floor, forgotten as they move toward the bedroom. Dean's starting to curse the amount of furniture he has in this place, especially since he seems to be walking into _every fucking piece of it_ , unwilling to tear himself away from Castiel long enough to actually look where's going.

Their clothes litter the floor, dropped where they are as they tug them off. Jackets and shirts and _Jesus, fuck, won't this belt just come **off** already--_ all discarded as they tumble onto the bed, wriggling out of pants and socks and shoes in a way that's more than faintly undignified, but if it gets them naked, then Dean's past caring what it looks like.

Castiel's breath is hot against skin as he mouths along Dean's shoulder, his hard cock poking into Dean's back.

Dean reaches out, yanking open the bedside cabinet and rifling through the drawer. And he knows it's in here, it _is_ , because he threw it in there last time he jerked off, and the condoms should still be in there from the last time he had someone back here. His fingers finally curling around the tube and packet he's blindly looking for, he holds them out to Castiel.

There's hesitation behind him and Dean's about to ask if he needs to draw Castiel a fucking map to his ass before Cas's fingers take the tube out of his hand. Castiel's knee nudges between Dean's thighs as there's a _snap_ behind him, and then fingers are pressing into him, twisting as they slide inside with a slick glide.

"Now--" Dean demands, his own cock hard and throbbing as he curls his hands around the length.

Castiel's fingers give a final twist as they pull out, leaving Dean empty and open as he hears a packet tearing, leaving him empty and open as Castiel shifts away, the sound of latex against skin telling him exactly what Castiel is doing.

A kiss is pressed between his shoulder blades as something else, heavier and more insistent than fingers, presses against his ass. Castiel holds there, cockhead against Dean's ass, hot and _there_ , until Dean pushes back, "Move--" ground out between his clenched teeth.

Dean can feel the smile against his skin as Castiel pushes forward, sliding into Dean. The burn of the stretch wilts his cock slightly. It's been a while since he's done this, a while since he was opened by the thickness of another man. Castiel stills once he's fully seated, once he's flush against Dean's ass. And Dean gets the waiting, gets the careful holding off until his body adjusts and, any other time, he thinks he'd be grateful, but right now he just needs Castiel to move, to _do_ something.

"C'mon, Cas-- Damn it, just _move--_ "

And Castiel obliges, his hand reaching around to cover Dean's own as he moves, covering Dean's fingers with his own as he strips Dean's cock.

It's too much and not enough and it's going to be over embarrassingly quickly because Dean's too tightly wound at the moment for it to be anything else.

Leaving Dean's hand jerking his cock, Castiel's fingers move to his balls, cupping them lightly before squeezing. And Dean can feel it, boiling in his belly and ready to fucking explode, and all he needs is--

Castiel scrapes a fingernail across Dean's balls and his cock pulses, white flashes behind Dean's eyes as come shoots over his fingers and splatters the sheets under them. Castiel stiffens behind him, hips moving in staccato thrusts as he empties himself inside Dean.

Dean breathes carefully, his heart still racing and Castiel's cock softening inside him until it finally slips out. Castiel moves back slightly and there's the quiet squeak of a condom being tied off.

"There's tissues," Dean says, grateful that Castiel gets what he means when he hears rustling and the sound of a tissue-clad condom being dropped into the trash can next to the bed. Further rustling heralds a perfunctory clean up as Castiel swipes tissues across Dean's stomach before they're discarded as well.

"You done now?" Dean asks. His entire body's loose and he can feel sleep tugging at him and it feels kinda glorious.

"Yes," Castiel replies, settling behind Dean, resting his arm across Dean's side.

"Good. Then shut up and sleep."

Castiel huffs a laugh, but his breathing starts to even out, and the only thought in Dean's head as he follows him is that they didn't get around to ordering pizza.

~

It's the smell of bacon that wakes Dean up and, for a moment, he's fifteen again and lying in bed while Dad cooks bacon and eggs and waiting until Sam gets out of the shower.

The other side of the bed is cold, so Castiel must have been up for a while. Getting out of bed, Dean grabs a t-shirt and some boxers, putting them on as he pads through to the kitchen.

Castiel is standing at the table, sausage and eggs already on plates as he flips the bacon out of the frying pan he's holding to join them.

"If you tell me you made coffee as well, I may have to marry you," Dean warns, leaning against the door jamb.

Castiel points to the pot behind him, not missing a beat. "It'll have to be in a church, my mother wouldn't settle for anything less," he replies, placing the pan back on the stove. "I scavenged in your kitchen, I hope you don't mind."

Dean shakes his head. "Not at all." He doesn’t say that it's been years since someone made him breakfast, years since someone stayed _long_ enough for him to have breakfast with them. He likes it, likes Castiel, in his kitchen, pouring coffee and wearing just his boxer briefs and-- "Is that my shirt?"

Castiel glances down at the t-shirt, white letters declaring 'Kansas' across the front. "I seem to be making this a habit, stealing your clothes."

The _Maybe you should keep some clothes here_ is on the tip of his tongue, but he banks down on it, even if Castiel _should_ , even if it makes sense. "I'm sure my shirts can cope," he says instead.

"That's good, because I'll need to borrow another one to wear into work." He pauses. "Maybe one that Jo didn't give you, this time."

Dean smirks. He's pretty sure he's got at least one shirt that Jo's never seen, even if he kinda likes the idea of her recognising that Cas is wearing his clothes. Picking one of the coffee cups up, Dean leans against the counter, cradling it in his hands.

Breakfast is a more pleasant affair than Dean can remember it being in a long time. Usually he just takes enough time to grab some toast before heading out of the apartment. Granted, the sausage is kinda burnt and the bacon's a little crispy ("I said I cooked, Dean, I didn't say I cooked _well--_ "), but the warmth of Castiel's foot against his leg more than makes up for it.

The plates go into the sink when they're done and Dean would wash them, he _would_ , but pressing Castiel back against the counter is a much better use of his time. Leaning down, he swipes his tongue along Cas's neck, the grin at Castiel's near purr turning into a growl when the buzz of one of their cell phones vibrates through the house. "Fucking phones," Dean mutters, grimacing as Castiel sidesteps away from him to head into the living room to retrieve whichever cockblocking little bastard is ringing this time.

Dean hears the quick murmur of conversation in the other room and Castiel's already snapping the phone shut as he heads back into the kitchen, the look on his face telling Dean that the plans he had to keep Castiel in bed all morning were about to be thrown right out of the window.

"That was Lieutenant Harvelle. They got a hit on CODIS."

~

Bobby's already in Ellen's office when they walk in, holding out a folder. "Lilith Jameson," is all he says as Dean takes the folder, opening it to find several printouts inside. The first one's a copy of a driver's licence, bearing the picture of a blonde staring at a camera, eyes straight ahead and mouth slightly down-turned. The date on it is a few years ago and it reminds Dean of pretty much every licence he's seen. He can see the command to not smile and look straight into the camera in the shot, but nothing to indicate a murderer in waiting.

Flicking the licence over, he scans the other pages. "She was in an institute?"

Bobby nods. "According to hospital records there were two suicide attempts which led to her spending some time in a psych hospital."

The information they have on her ends there. He hands the folder to Castiel as he focuses back on Ellen and Bobby. "Is that all we have?"

"It's more than we had two hours ago," Ellen points out. "And it's a start."

Taking a breath, Dean nods. Ellen's right. It's a hell of a lot more than they had yesterday, they've just got to put the rest of it together. "If we--" The words trail off as Dean turns to Castiel. "Cas?"

Dean says his name again before Castiel finally lifts his head, pinning Dean with the same intense gaze he'd been staring the contents of the folder with.

Without saying a word, Castiel drops the folder onto Ellen's desk and turns, walking out of the room without a backward glance.

Shrugging at the concerned looks both Ellen and Bobby are giving him, Dean turns to go after him, hesitating as he looks back at Ellen.

"Go," she says, waving him out of her office.

Castiel's already part way down the corridor by the time Dean turns the corner. "Cas, wait!" Not that he thinks Castiel will actually stop. "Damn it," Dean mutters, breaking into a jog to catch up with his errant partner. "Cas, what the hell?"

Reaching out, Dean wraps a hand around Castiel's arm, starting slightly when Castiel jerks it away. Cas looks like he's about two steps from throwing up and Dean wants to know what's going on right the hell now. "Come on," he says, taking Castiel's arm again, just tightening his grip when the other man tries to pull away.

Leading Castiel a few more feet down the corridor, Dean opens the door to the men's room and guides Cas inside, locking the door behind them. They're the only two in there and Dean wants it to stay that way. "Okay." He lets Castiel's arm go. "Talk. Or vomit." Because Castiel looks like he's just seen a ghost, so Dean really isn't sure which of the two options he's going to go for.

Castiel ignores him, heading towards one of the sinks and running the cold water before splashing a handful on his face. "It's ridiculous. I've gone through this entire case _hoping_ that I was wrong, that this had nothing to with him, and then this."

"Cas?"

Castiel looks at him, the harsh fluorescent lighting in the room reflecting off the blue. "Did you read the history we have on her?" Even though he was there, even though he knows Dean did.

"Yeah," Dean replies, almost dizzy at the sudden change in topic. "A couple of attempts to kill herself that got her landed in a psych ward." All things that indicated Lilith Jameson was a troubled young woman, but nothing that leapt out and screamed that she was the one, that she'd spent the last few months carrying out a set of copycat murders.

Castiel drags a hand through his hair, leaving wet strands sticking up that Dean wants to smooth down. "She was in St. Michael's in Colorado."

Dean nods. "And being in hospital is generally a _good_ thing for people who try to kill themselves, Cas." Because if there's something there then Dean's just not seeing it.

Castiel barks a laugh, sharp and brittle, his hand slapping against the mirror over the sink. "St. Michael's isn't just any psychiatric hospital, Dean; it's the same one Luke was in."

A small spider scuttles across the floor, dancing over the cracked tiles as Dean glances down. And he sees it now. Well, fuck.

~

Jameson's parents still live in Colorado, and they can be there before nightfall, if they leave now.

"You sure we're not stepping on anyone's toes, here?" Dean asks.

Ellen just looks at him and, for a moment, Dean's not sure if she going to answer or send him to his room. "It's fine," she replies finally. "I've spoken to my counterpart in Boulder and cleared it. He's going to speak to the Jamesons so they're not totally ambushed when you get there." She holds out a piece of paper with a name and phone number scribbled on it. "He said to call him if you need anything."

Dean takes the paper, sliding it into his back pocket.

"Now, go," she says. "And find out what the hell's going on."

~

The first thing that hits Dean when they finally pull up to the Jameson house is how suburban it all looks, with the painted fences all along the street with their perfectly spaced trees. "Shall we?" he says, looking over at Castiel and holding his hands still against the steering wheel, resisting the urge to beat out a steady tattoo with his fingers.

Castiel nods, hesitating slightly before getting out of the car and Dean knows he's thinking about the folders on the back seat. He knows he's thinking whether or not they should take them in, whether or not it would make things worse.

Dean's not surprised to find that the Jamesons are expecting them. He knows the sheriff probably came out to see them as soon as he finished talking to Ellen.

It takes a while for them to get started, Mrs. Jameson busying herself with making coffee for them all before she finally sits, her husband's hand on her arm.

"Lieutenant Walker said you wanted to speak about Lily," Mr. Jameson says, his voice quiet, like he wants to know why two homicide detectives from Kansas are interested in his daughter, but is too afraid to find out the answer.

Dean nods. "We need to speak to-- Lily," He stumbles slightly on the name, too used to thinking of her as Jameson, as the suspect; too used to thinking of her in ways her parents never will. "She may have some information about a case we're investigating." It's not a lie and it's not the truth, but Dean is unwilling to look these people in the eye and tell them their daughter may have tortured six people to death, and those're just the ones they know about.

"Can you tell us why Lily ended up in St. Michael's?" Castiel's eyes are on Mrs. Jameson as he asks, but Mr. Jameson answers.

"Lily was such a happy child when she was younger, and then it all changed when she was nineteen."

"Depression," Mrs. Jameson clarifies. "The doctors said she had depression. None of the drugs they gave her seemed to work and she just got lower and lower until--" The words trail off and Dean thinks she's about to start crying, until she takes a deep breath, trying to pull herself together.

"I found her in the bathroom," Mr. Jameson continues. "There was so much blood everywhere." He pauses, his hand squeezes his wife's. "We called an ambulance and they rushed her to hospital. When she came out, she was fine for a few months and then--"

"And then she tried again?" Castiel says when Mr. Jameson stops.

Mrs. Jameson nods. "The doctors suggested St. Michael's."

"It was 'for her own good.'" By the way Mr. Jameson all but spits the words, Dean knows the other man doesn't agree with the assessment.

Mrs. Jameson looks at her husband. "It was," she says softly. "It _was_." Dean doesn't know which one of them she's trying to convince.

"Mrs. Jameson, when was Lily released?" Dean asks. Because if she's out there killing people, then she's sure as hell not in a padded room somewhere.

"Nearly a year ago," she answers. "There'd been such a turnaround."

Dean doesn't know what Mrs. Jameson sees in his face, but she smiles softly. "Detective Winchester, you have to understand that it wasn't an easy decision for us, agreeing to put Lily in that place. And Lily railed against it. At first, she refused to see us, fought the doctors every step of the way. And then it was like a switch had been thrown. She _spoke_ to us, Detective. It was like we had our daughter back."

Castiel glances at Dean before he turns his attention back to the Jamesons. "Where's Lily now?"

Because the last known address they had for her was St. Michael's, with nothing after her release.

"We don't know," replies Mr. Jameson, shaking his head.

Wait, what--

"You don't know?"

"The day they released her from the hospital, we went to pick her up and she'd already gone," he explains. "All that was left were those damn drawings."

Mrs. Jameson's soft "David--" is nearly lost as Castiel asks, "Drawings?"

"The doctors said they were just a release of anger," Mrs. Jameson is quick to answer, clutching her husband's hand as he stands up. "They said they didn't mean anything."

Dean watches as Mr. Jameson heads over to a bureau on the other side of the room, opening it before pulling out several sheets of paper. "These are only a few of them," he says, walking back to hand the paper to Castiel, the drawings bright and colourful and almost childlike in their manner. "Apparently, she liked to draw."

Dean can hear the paper rustling as Castiel starts to look through the drawings, pausing slightly before he holds one out for Dean to take.

"I guess this answers our question," he says softly.

Dean looks at the pictures as he takes them, eyes flicking over the splashes of red colour on the page and the figures held in cages and tied to beds. But even if they weren't there, he'd still know what Castiel meant, still know that they definitely have the name they need by the cursive _Come and see_ scrawled across the top of each page.

"Do you mind if we keep these?" he asks, nodding his thanks when Mr. Jameson agrees. "Thank you both, I think that's all we--" He trails off at Castiel's sharp intake of breath, glancing over to see Castiel staring at one of the drawings still in his hand, the edges of the paper crinkling in his grip.

Leaning over, Dean looks at the picture, looks at the house in black outline with the garden and the two people outside. He's kind of reminded of the pictures Sam used to draw when he was little, with Sam and him and Mom and Dad, all happy stick figures outside of the house. He's reminded of it, right up until he reads the names above each figure. Placing a hand on Castiel's shoulder, he carefully takes the drawing, placing it on the coffee table and pointing to the figure marked as _Luke_.

"Who's that?" he asks. Because it's possible it's just a coincidence, possible it's a completely different Luke.

"Lily met him at St. Michael's," Mr. Jameson answers. "The first time she let us come and see her, she was all 'Luke this' and 'Luke that.' The doctors told us they spent most of their free time together."

"They were allowed to do that?" Dean asks.

Mrs. Jameson frowns slightly. "It's a hospital, Detective, not a prison."

Dean glances away, not willing to admit that's kind of exactly what he's thinking. Rooms, all locked and sealed with people inside them for hours each day. Although he's willing to admit that his mental image of these places owes more to _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_ than any actual experience.

"All I know is Luke was a godsend," Mrs. Jameson says firmly. "Lily was heartbroken when he left St. Michael's."

"I'm sure he was very charming." Castiel's voice is quiet, thoughtful, and if they were anywhere else Dean would already be reaching out, but he's acutely aware of Jamesons watching both of them.

Dean wants to ask more, ask if they ever met Luke, if they knew what he'd done after he was released, but he swallows his words when Castiel stands up.

"Thank you both for your time," he says, "but we need to be heading back now."

There's a round of stilted pleasantries as they say goodbye, and Dean hands Mrs. Jameson his card, just in case, and then they're back outside, Castiel heading straight for the car and ignoring Dean's muttered comment to slow the fuck down.

Pulling open the rear door once he reaches the car, Castiel reaches in and retrieves one of the folder sitting on the back seat. Opening the file, he pulls some of the pages Dean hadn't paid any attention to when he'd first read the file, and any remaining hope Dean has about the stick-figure Luke on the paper not being Castiel's brother fizzles out.

The drawings are more elaborate than Lily's and it's obvious Luke had more artistic talent, but the theme is still the same, even if it's rendered in careful, precise pencil strokes. There are dozens of the drawings: scenes of war, emaciated figures, cockroaches scuttling over floors.

"They'd said he was better." The words are tight as Castiel speaks and Dean doesn't hold back this time, reaches out and wraps his fingers around Castiel's wrist, his thumb brushing over Cas's pulse. "They'd said that the drawings were a type of release." Dean wonders if Castiel releases he's almost echoing Mrs. Jameson's words. "They said that it didn't mean that they're going to be acted out." Castiel pauses. "What they didn't say was _sometimes_. It _sometimes_ doesn't mean that they're going to be acted out. And you know what the crux is, Dean? That it's a bitch when you find the exception. Especially when he's your brother."

Castiel pivots on his heel and leans against the car, hands against the hood and face tilted towards the lowering sun, eyes closing as Dean throws the folder back into the car, along with the drawings they'd got from Lily's parents.

"It's never going to be over, is it?" he says, not opening his eyes as the car door clicks shut.

Yes. No. Only once you let it go. Dean's not sure which one's the right answer, which one's the one Castiel wants to hear. He kinda thinks none of them are. "We'll find her, Cas." He settles his ass against the hood of the car, his hand covering Castiel's. "We'll find her, and we'll stop her." For now, it's the best he can offer.

~

Castiel stares out of his window as Dean drives, the world outside rolling past them as they speed down the highway. Dean wants to say something, but everything in his head sounds banal and _wrong_ , so he settles for the quiet, trusting that Castiel will talk if he needs to.

It's already late, but Dean's suggestion about getting off the interstate for something to eat is met with a shake of Castiel's head, so Dean drives past the exit, watching as it vanishes in the rear view mirror.

This time, when the lights of the hotel appear, bright and alluring, Dean doesn't bother asking, just takes the turn off and parks in the lot.

"Dean?" The frown on Castiel's face causes his nose to scrunch slightly and Dean's tempted to tell him how cute it makes him, but it's been a long day and he's really not sure whether Castiel would hit him for it.

"It's late and I'm tired, and I'm pretty sure you are, too. There's still at least another six hours drive ahead of us and I don't wanna roll the car because I can't keep my eyes open." He kind of expects Castiel to argue, to say that they have to get back, but he doesn't.

"You're right," Castiel replies, rubbing a hand over his face. "And some sleep sounds like a really good idea right now."

Dean grins. "I'm all about the good ideas," he says, getting out of the car wondering if Ellen will let him get away with putting the room on expenses.

The room they get has two queens (and Dean's not going to make the comment, he's not, not even in his own head), and Dean drops the bag he keeps in his trunk with a couple of spare changes of clothes in it, on one of them.

Castiel showers first, and Dean almost expects him to be like Sam and take an age in there, but he's in and out in less than ten minutes. "It's all yours," he says, rubbing a towel over his hair.

It looks like the hotel's wallpaper is from the seventies, but the water's hot and the towels are soft and that, Dean thinks, is pretty much all he needs right now.

Castiel's in bed when Dean gets out of the bathroom, the used towels on the bed with Dean's bag on it, along with their clothes. Dropping his towel on top of Castiel's, Dean flicks the light off, putting the room into darkness as he pads over to the other bed, pulls back the covers slightly and slides inside.

Castiel moves closer as soon as Dean lies down, already half asleep, his back warm against Dean's chest. Wrapping an arm around Castiel's waist, he presses a kiss to Castiel's shoulder and closes his eyes.

~

Ellen's waiting for them when they finally get back and Dean knows she hasn't left the station since they left the day before.

"Well?" she asks as they walk into her office, Dean slumping down in one of the chairs.

Castiel hands her the drawings Lily had done in the hospital. "I think it's pretty conclusive."

Dean can see Lily's colourful renditions of murder, bold and bright, can see the purse of Ellen's lips as she reads each scene they've found and photographed and catalogued in red and purple pencil strokes. "Yes," she agrees, finally placing them on her desk, "I'd say that's pretty damn conclusive."

Ellen looks wearier than Dean's seen her in a long time and Castiel just looks plain _tired_. "So, now we've just got to find the bitch, right?" And then it'll be over. Ellen can mark it as case closed and Castiel can mark it as done, dusted, and the bones fucking _burned_. They've just got to find her. One person. One person in a state of three million. But she's one person in three million with Dean Winchester looking for her, and Dean _hates_ to lose. He pushes himself up from the chair, giving Castiel a quick grin. "Let's get started, then."

~

When they search for it, there's no hit on Lily's name beyond what they already know. There's no current driver's license, no place of employment, no place of residence. They've checked Kansas and Colorado and the surrounding states just in case, but so far they've found nothing. Not that Dean thought it would be that easy, it never is. Just once, though, he'd kinda like it to be.

He scrubs a hand over his face as he stands up and heads towards the door. "I'm going for coffee," he says, answering the look Castiel is giving him. "You want anything?"

Castiel shakes his head and Dean doesn't blame him. The coffee the machine kicks out swings between being weaker than dishwater and stronger than rhino's piss, and it can't seem to decide how much sugar it wants to dump in each cup at any given moment. However, it's still coffee and, at this point, Dean needs the caffeine.

Fishing a quarter out of his pocket and feeding it to the machine, he watches until the dark black liquid starts to fill the cup. Rhino's piss, then. Still, though, at least it means more caffeine than if the machine had gone for the dishwater option.

Taking the cup out of the machine, Dean lets the last few drops still dispensing disappear into the vent below. The burn of hot coffee runs over his tongue as he drinks, thick and strong and Jesus fuck why won't they spring for a proper coffee machine in this place.

Tipping the rest of the coffee into the machine, Dean crumples the cup, dropping it into the trash. That's it, he thinks, they're leaving. He'll drive them back to his place and they can get some sleep and some food and some proper fucking coffee and come back in the morning. Right now, every time Dean looks at the computer, looks at the results of yet another search, the words are swimming in front of him, and he's sure Castiel can't be much better off.

"Cas," he says, heading back into the bullpen, "I think we should--"

But Castiel's not paying attention to him, not doing anything but staring at the screen in front of him. "I think I found her." He looks up, meeting Dean's gaze.

"How?" Dean asks. Because they had nothing across _five states_.

"I tried variants on her name." Castiel glances back at the computer, a humourless smile on his lips. "I got a hit on Lily Milton."

Which isn't exactly right. Technically, he got a hit on _four_ Lily Miltons, all living within 150 miles of at least one of the places the bodies were found. Two of them aren't the right age range and a third is originally from Australia and only moved to the US six months ago. And that leaves them with one.

Castiel's fingers fly across the keyboard, and with a few quick keystrokes, the computer brings up Lily Milton's driver's license.

"Looks like she dyed her hair," Dean comments lightly, looking at the brunette with the face of Lilith Jameson staring out of the screen.

~

The house she's chosen is quiet, unassuming and actually kinda like the one her parents live in. There are lights on in at least two of the rooms and a shadow moving inside, so they know that someone's in there.

They've parked partway up the street, blocking it off, and Victor and Pam are making their way around to the back of the house with the other half of the SWAT team that's standing behind Dean and Castiel.

Ellen's already directing them, sending two of the SWAT guys down to the cordon blocking the other end of the street. There are already uniforms at both of the neighbouring houses, talking to the people inside and getting them out of their homes. She looks over at Dean and Castiel once everyone's clear and nods.

They cut across the gardens as they jog to the house, guns already out and Dean having to sidestep a child's bike that's been left almost buried under a bush.

Ellen's got eyes on the house and Dean's earpiece crackles slightly before her voice weaves into his ear, Castiel tilting his head slightly as he listens to the same message.

"It's definitely her in the house, but we don't know if anyone else is in there with her. Be careful."

One of the SWAT team is behind them as they reach the door, waiting until Dean and Castiel are on either side before she crouches down, lockpick tools working at the front door for long moments before it clicks open.

Dean gives her a quick thumbs up as she steps back, nudging the door with his foot and pushing it open. "Front's open," he murmurs, knowing the microphone will pick up his voice.

"So's the back," comes Pam's reply.

"You're good to go," Ellen confirms. "So far we've got movement upstairs only. Be careful."

The hall's empty when they step inside, the quiet crunch as Dean steps on the mat declaring _Welcome_ the only noise.

Dean goes left as Castiel goes right, doing a sweep of the living room and finding nothing except a butt-ugly painting above the fireplace.

Victor and Pamela are with Cas when Dean gets back out to the hall, all of the shaking their heads.

"The downstairs is clear," Dean says, his voice low. "We're heading upstairs."

The fifth step creaks as Dean puts his weight on it, the sound loud in the silence. He holds his breath, but there's nothing, no movement, no indication that she knows anyone else is in the house with her. Nothing until the crack of a gun and a grunt from behind Dean.

"What's happening?" Ellen's voice is frantic in Dean's ear and he'd tell her, but he's too busy keeping Victor from sliding down the wall, a spread of red blossoming across his shoulder.

Another shot rings through the house, the bullet streaking past Dean's head and that was _way too fucking close_.

"Get him out of here," Dean tells Pam, letting her take the rest of her partner's weight as she all but wrestles him carefully down the stairs. "Pam and Vic are on their way out," he tells Ellen, the words almost drowned by Castiel.

"Lilith Jameson, put the weapon down!"

Lily's standing in the doorway to one of the bedrooms, hair scraped back into a rough ponytail and gun pointing directly at Castiel. Dean doesn't hesitate as he brings his weapon to bear on her.

"I hoped it would be you," she says, voice too calm for someone with two guns pointing at her. "I need to talk to you, that's why I sent for you. Did you like my messages?"

"Put the gun down," Dean repeats Castiel's command, but she ignores him, her focus totally on Cas.

"I tried to get them as close to Luke's as possible, with just that little added extra from me."

Castiel looks like he's a step away from throwing up at her implication. "You killed those people to send me a message?"

"What?" Dean comments, "A phone call wouldn't have done?"

"I needed to speak to you," she says again, more insistent. Her hand is shaking slightly and Dean can't take his eyes off the hand wrapped around her gun, her fingers caressing the grip like she's thinking about firing, but just isn't sure.

"Okay, I'm here," Castiel says, and Dean wonders if Lily can hear the waver in Cas's voice or if it's just him. "Put the gun down and we'll talk."

There's part of Dean that knows this is how it's done, knows it's always a case of trying to talk them down without anyone getting killed. He knows this, he's known it since it was drilled into him at the academy. But right now it's being overridden by the part of him that wants to shake Cas and ask him what the fuck he thinks he's doing having a conversation with the psycho _pointing a gun at him_.

The gun in Lily's hand doesn't move. "You were the last one who spoke to him, Castiel."

Her tongue wraps around Cas's name like a caress and Dean's grip tightens on his gun.

"Did he mention me? Did he tell you he loved me? Did he tell you he did it for me?" She's smiling as she talks, sweet and bright, like her skin's not stained with red.

"What?" The word breaks in the middle and Dean's torn between keeping his gun trained on Lily and dragging Castiel out of there as quickly as he can. His gun stays where it is.

"I saw them, in my head," she continues. "Saw them, all laid out and ready and he did that for me." Like she's talking about flower arranging and not murder. "And then he stopped. He stopped and you were the last one and I need to know what he said!"

She shifts slightly and Dean's finger starts to press down.

"He--" Castiel's words trail off, and there's silence for a moment before his stance sharpens, the emotion gone from his face. "He didn't mention you at all, sorry."

Even though he's blatantly _not_ sorry, and again with the psycho _pointing a gun at him_ , except this time with added taunting.

"You're lying," Lily replies. Except for how he's not and Dean's not sure what's going to be worse. Whether she thinks he's lying, or whether she knows that he isn't. "Luke loved me--"

"Luke was sick," Castiel snaps.

"He was perfect!"

"He was killing people, lady! You have a real screwed up definition of _perfect_!" And that's it, get her attention off Castiel, get her attention split between the two of them.

"Luke was sick," Castiel repeats, his voice steady. "He was sick and he was weak--" He pauses. "And he _didn't mention you_."

Lily moves as the cry of anger falls from her lips, and Dean _knows_ , fires without hesitation as twin shots come from opposite directions.

The gun clatters from Lily's hand as she drops to the floor, arms outspread and not moving as the pool of red widens under her. 

But Dean's not paying attention, leaving Lily to the people moving past him and towards where she's lying. He's not paying attention because he's already turning, already looking at where Castiel is swaying, the hand against his stomach not masking the blood spreading across his shirt.

"Dean--"

Dean catches him as he falls.

~

Castiel is quiet and still in the hospital bed, too many tubes and wires attached to him. The machine next to him lets out another noise, and it seems as though the soft sound of beeping is the only soundtrack Dean's life has right now.

"Dean?"

Dean turns at the sound of his brother's voice, seeing Sam standing in the doorway, concern written on his face.

"How is he?" Sam asks, stepping into room and laying a hand on Dean's shoulder.

"Still the same," Dean replies. The same as Castiel was yesterday and the day before and the day before. The same as he's been since an ambulance screamed into the hospital lot and they vanished with him behind double doors, leaving Dean standing in a corridor covered in blood that's not his and holding a trenchcoat.

"And the doctors?"

"Saying exactly what they did yesterday." That Castiel was lucky, that the bullet, while causing a lot of damage, didn't cause as much as it could have. That he should make a full recovery if he'd only just _wake up_.

A chill brushes over Dean's shoulder as Sam moves his hand. "Dean--"

Oh god, that's Sam's _I think we should talk_ tone. "Not now, Sam." Because he doesn't know what Sam's going to say, but he can't hear it, not right now. Whether it's _he'll be okay_ or _what the hell do you think you're doing sleeping with your partner_ or even _it's about time you found someone willing to put up with you_ , he just can't.

Sam looks like he's about to ignore him, about to go on anyway, and then his eyes shift to Dean's fingers, watching as they stroke the back of Castiel's hand, carefully avoiding the cannula taped there. "I was just going to ask if you'd eaten anything yet?"

Except for how he really wasn't. And there are times Dean can't explain just how much he loves his brother. "No, I haven't."

"I'll run down to the cafeteria and get you something," Sam says. "I'll even make sure it's something fried and unhealthy, just the way you like it." The smile on Sam's face takes the sting out of his words.

"You are such a little bitch at times, Sammy." _And I wouldn't change you for the world,_ he doesn't say.

"Yeah, but you're a jerk, so I guess we're even." Sam pauses in the doorway. "He's going to be fine, you know."

"You'd better be," Dean murmurs, listening as Sam's footsteps retreat into silence down the corridor.

"Better be-- what?"

Dean jerks around at Castiel's voice, wincing in sympathy when he squeezes Cas's hand tightly in surprise. "Shit, sorry!" Easing his grip, he pulls back slightly. "How you feelin'?"

"Like I got shot in the stomach by a madwoman." Castiel's voice is low and _wrecked_ , breaking on every third word, but it sounds like fucking angels singing. And, wow, he's never admitting that out loud.

Castiel frowns at his own mention of Lily Jameson. "Is she--"

Dean shakes his head. "Luckily, my aim's a little better than hers was. It's over, Cas." 

Some of the tension drains out of Castiel's shoulders. "Good." He looks at Dean. "IA?"

"Cleared." The fact that she'd shot Castiel at the same time Dean had shot her meant that Internal Affairs' investigation into what had happened was pretty much a paper exercise, and Dean's actions had been cleared as necessary before the day was over. "When I said _over_ , I meant it."

"In that case, I think we should ask Lieutenant Harvelle for some time off," Castiel comments.

"You're lying in a hospital bed, Cas. I think the _time off_ side is covered." Although, knowing Castiel, he's probably going to be sitting back at his desk tomorrow.

"I meant, when my insides aren't strapped into me with gauze and tape, as that sort of puts a crimp in my plan of the two of us spending a week having sex in every feasible position." Castiel pauses. "That is, if you're up for that."

Dean just looks at him. He's up for that for the foreseeable future, and probably quite a way beyond that. "Yeah, Cas," he replies, tightening his grip on Castiel's fingers and grinning when he feels them squeeze back in response, "I'm up for that."


End file.
